


fel^ lESllE PAQC 




LILLIAN LESLIE PAGE. 



FORGET-ME-NOTS 



BY 



LILLIAN LESLIE PAGE 




Published for the Author 

by 

THE WHITAKER & RAY CO. 

(Incorporated) 

i899 



- r « - - ^ . 



CC^ 



I 

Regis: 






2V12 



Copyright 

1899 

Lillian Leslie Page 



8CC0N0 COPY* 



^ 

^ 



DEDICATION 

^^^^■^HIS LITTLE CLUSTER OF FORGET-ME-NOTS IS 
11 DEDICATED IN TENDER REMEMBRANCE TO 

^^L^ THE HAPPY HOURS OF MY LIFE, AND TO 
THE DEAR FRIENDS WHO HAVE MADE THEM SO. 

LILLIAN LESLIE PAGE. 






CONTENTS 

A Day at Catalina 

Chestnuts 

Release 

Leaves 

Reni 

Driftwood 

A New England Thanksgiving Day 

August 

A Reverie . . . . • 

Baby Earl 

An Exile 



A DAY AT CATALINA 

When the day is sifting 

Dusk shades into the gflen^ 

And twilight gray is drifting 
Into the haunts of men — 

A mellow sunset gleams 
Aslant the western sea ; 

A-dream our senses seem 

With the waves' soft lullaby! 



There are tints of opal, and amethyst 
Where the shade and shine have met 

Among the hills, and, rapturous, kissed. 
Just before the sun has set. 



And, when the waves lie sleeping, 
In Santa Catalina's bay, 

Have we no cause for weeping 
O'er our fleeting day ? 

And that the golden sunlight 

By the sunset sea. 
With the tinted twilight 

Are now — a memory ? 



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*?i 













CHESTNUTS 



I 



The time was when the winds were cold. 
And golden-rod had lost its gold. 
And summer days were fully told. 




II 




And Nature, with her magic wand 
/ Turning to beauty all the land, 



Dispensed her gifts with generous hand. 



And lovely arc the hues she weaves, 

Into the bright October leaves, 

'Gainst the pale gold of harvest sheaves. 



IV 

Upon the hills, ripe chestnuts, brown 
The autumn winds had scattered round 
Among the leaves upon the ground. 





V 

And up the hillside, all the while 
Steady paced and *' Indian-file/' 
We climbed its pathway half a mile, 



^JSS:: VI 

% Then, where the path grew rugged, steep; 
And vines and brakes, and briars creep. 
Tried vainly even step to keep. 



VII 
And squirrels young, and squirrels staid 
Viewed our movements, undismayed, 
Nor feared to suffer from our raid. 



VIII 



They knew better, perhaps, than we. 
The way to the richest chestnut tree, 
But kept their secret well, you see ? 



11 '!>&"'^ 




V*-i 



RELEASE 



From all the care, the worry, 
The jostle, and the strife. 

The bustle and the hurry 
Alongf the path of life — 



To slip aside from out the throng:, 
Into some shady nook ; 

Hallowed by a sweet bird-song. 
And by all the world forsook ! 




With the warm, damp earth for pillow 
And mosses for our bed. 

And the drooping, swaying willow 
Shadowing overhead — 

To dream that angel fingers 

Smooth the brow of care. 
And lead, while daylight lingers, 

To the many mansions fair ; 

Or to hear the long-hushed voices 

Call us, ever and anon. 
To the far home of those we loved 

In the years forever gone. 

And this sigh of earnest longing, 
Is the soul's oft-told request. 



l^ j^l^^^^Jiilcr sad thoughts the heart are thronging) 




If He loves He '11 give us rest/' 



k^ 




LEAVES 

The day is bright ; and golden 
Fall the leaves about my feet, 
While fancies strange and olden, 
Throng my memory, sad yet sweet. 

A requiem, seems the wind's low sigh. 
As the dead leaves flutter down ; 
All meekly at my feet to lie. 
Golden, red and brown. 

As Hope, with folded hands 

Across a pulseless breast. 

Lies down calmly 

In sombre garments drest ; 

Then I cry, ** To love there's not one." 

Life seemed too short 

When blooming Hope was young. 

But now, with the bitter past 
My thoughts are wed. 
And life is far too long, 
When Hope is dead ! 




RENI 

Of ttimes, when over the sunset 

Cloud-curtains, with fleecy fold 
Hang, purple, opal and amethyst 

With edges of crimson and gold. 
Memory speaks of a hamlet 

With a quaint old Spanish name. 
Nestled among the foot-hills, 

Where the Sierras slope to the plain. 



And I see again the convent 

St. Ursul, rising high 
Where happy were the hours we spent 

My playmate Reni and I ; 
For neither had known a heartache — 

A burden or a care ; 
The clouds of life were hidden, 

And the sky was bright and fair. 





She was lovely as the sunlight ; 

Fair as a poet's dream ! 
Changeful as the shadows 

That steal the boughs between ; 
But I loved her for her merry heart. 

The gentle, graceful ways ; 
And prized her friendship dearest 

Of all, in childhood days ! 




We played among the orange trees, 

"Where the petals fell like rain ; 
Then fate led my footsteps far away. 

And wc never met again. 
She rests beyond the shadow 

Of the gray old convent wall ; 
And, about her cold, damp home, 

The sycamore shadows fall. 



Perhaps 'tis well; they tell me 

'T were better she had lain 
Beneath its shadow, ere she left 

Behind a tarnished name. 
I find it easy to forgive 

"When there 's no one to defend, 
And tho* others may upbraid 

I still may own my friend. 



** Thou hast been called, dear Reni ! 

A Magdalen, I Ve heard ; 
Yet I would not mock thy memory, 

"With one bitter, taunting word ; 
For I hold our friendship dear. 

Just for the olden time. 
When we played beneath the shadows 

Of that cluster-laden vine." 




DRIFTWOOD 



Adown the Spring-clad valley, 
The river ran deep and wide ; 

Whirling weeds and branches 
Away with its turbid tide. 




And, as I watched them floating, 
Helpless and hopeless tost. 

Like unto some ship- wrecked mariner. 
Till they in the mist were lost — 



I remembered having read 

That life was like a stream ; 

With here and there a shadow 
And, anon, a sunny gleam. 



And, ^t was said that joy and sorrow. 
With its ripples fled away ; 

Even as this blackened driftwood 
Floated out upon the bay ! 



And my mind was much perplexed ; 

I could not understand ; 
For I had seen no shadows 

In youth, ** Life's Summerland/' 



k 





But in later years, Fve read 

Those words with eyes of truth ; 

"With eyes that were not dazzled 
By the rosy dawn of youth ! 



Yes ! Life is like a stream 
And we, who float along 

Over its waves or ripples, 

With either a sigh or song — 



Between banks, all green and grassy. 
With many a sunny slope ; 

Or, strewn with blackened driftwood. 
From many a ship-wrecked hope ! 



Are leaving behind us scenes 
We never may visit again ; 

The landscape fair of peace, 
Or, years of weary pain. 



Yet pleasant the voyage, albeit 
Clouds along the horizon lie, 

If Hope's bright bow of promise 
Is hung athwart our sky — 



And we know, with the loved and loving ones 
Who drift from our clasp away. 

We shall be anchored safely 
Within the Crystal Bay ! 




A NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING DAY 

n-22-'82 



I 



Clouds that golden glow at dawn. 
Woods with autumn's glory gone. 
Withered leaves to tread upon — 
In the gray November. 



n 




Panes that gleam with frozen dew. 
In the dawn-light streaming through 
Midday skies of sunny blue ; 
Noontide in November. 




m 

Over the hilltop's leafless crest 

daylight glows in the west ; 
restless winds a transient rest. 
Evening in November. 




AUGUST 

The hour is sultry; and the breeze 
Steals so slowly 'mong; the trees 
That it faintly stirs the leaves. 



And there are shadowy clouds that lie 
Like snow-drifts Against the August sky; 
And eventide is drawing nigh. 



When silent is the street and mill, 
And upon the woody hill, 
Lonely, sings the whip-poor-will — 




Then the dew shall bathe the feet 

Of the flowers as they sleep, 

And the moonbeams guard shall keep. 



A 




A REVERIE 

A hush of eventide is on the vale; 

No bough is stirring; not a wail 

Of wind or tempest comes to lift 

The silence or to mar the calm ; I drift, 

And over unknown seas, to foreign lands. 

And one I love is leading me 

And holds my hands. 

My senses dream, tho' eyelids slumber not; 
And voices, seemingly, so long forgot. 
Speak to me low, as in the time gone by ; 
I dream and drift ; the moments fleeting fly. 
Oh ! do not wake me then, for I would give 
As much as may be in such dreams to live 
And never waken ! 





Dear little golden head^ 
Asleep on my breast; 

Lovingly fondled, 
Kissed and caressed* 



Sadly I miss the pattering feet, 

The dear, busy fingers 
And lisping sweet. ; 



While hot fall the tears 
On the soft little curl 

That kissed the fair brow 
Of my baby Earl! 



Ah me ! has Heaven another so fair 

As my brown-eyed baby with golden hair } 




AN EXILE 

Where Minnehaha in the sunshine smiles 
And the beautiful river of a ''Thousand Isles ^' 
On Niagfara^s turbulent waters^ foam-crested, 
And New Engfland^s hills mine eyes had rested ; 
Yet the old, old home, ^leath blue, blue skies. 
Was the dearest picture of Memory's eyes. 



I had stood on the Hudson's bank to gfazF 
On the Hig^hlands, in the summer's haze. 
The stately palaces of stone 
That lined its banks were §frand, I own. 
Yet none in splendor could outshine 
My dear old home in the sunset clime. 




In the stranger's land I could not stay 
But over the prairies wandered away ; 
And to the south, where the cypress' bend 
Over the grave of a well-loved friend ; 
For the fever's breath was in the air. 
Blighting the flowers we deemed most rare. 




Where the Texas red-bird sings to the sun 

I went, yet found my search not done. 

And, northward again, my face I turned 

Beyond where the Mcnuaches' camp-fires burned. 

Gray and high in the solitude 

The crumbling walls of Fort Riley stood. 




As the moonligfht fell on the barrack walls 
It ^minded me of castled halls 
Of which I'd read ; and I nearer drew 
From the chillingf wind, which ever blew 
Through the doorless ways, moaning, sighing, 
Like the voice of one in sorrow crying. 



Some of the walls were crumbling down, 
With rough-hewn stones strewing the ground ; 
Others in the long row seemed to stand. 
Pointing to Heaven, like spectral hands. 

I stood alone in the midnight cold, — 

And loneliness is grand ; I hold. 

Our noblest, holiest thoughts we speak 

But to ourselves alone ; 

When joy, or grief, is great, we seek 

Close intercourse with none. 



Then, back to the camp I turned, 
And wearily sought my rest. 
To dream of the mountains dividing me 
And my far-away home in the West. 
All were busy at early dawn 
Packing the baggage and tents ; 
The cover at last was drawn. 
And again on our way we went. 




The prairie lilies and roses 

Nodded ** good-morning*' to me, 

But the shy, tender mimosas 

Bowed, so their faces I could not see ; 

The fragrant wind from the prairie 

Gently urged me to stay, 

But I looked to the sunset, and answered, 

" I cannot," and hastened away. 




Beyond the land of the ** Menuaches,'' 
I sought the coveted blossom ** heartease/' 
In a hunter's cabin I slept, and dreamed 
That life was not so dark as it seemed, 
That clouds and sunshine came as bidden, 
And sorrow left us alone when chidden, 
'Till I startled, 'wakened at the sound 
Of my Indian pony pawing the ground. 
Impatient and restless ever, he 
By nature was surely a Menuache ! 



Then I went on my way with a lighter heart. 
While our clattering hoofs set the deer a-start; 
Though I had not found the heartease yet. 
The old home I could not quite forget 
As afar I saw the Sierras rise 
Guarding the gates of my Paradise; 
As one may fancy Sentinels stand 
Before the gates of the ** Promised Land." 




\ 







Half satisfied then, I journeyed back, 
Crossing again the olden track ; 
And the blossom sought, my restless eyes 
Found, blooming beneath New England skies. 
Thankful now, with the kindness sent, 
Wisdom has taught me to be content; 
Yet ever that far away, ** Ranche ** will be 
My Beulah Land of memory! 



And busily, busily all the day 

Glide the fleeting hours away ; 

Unrestful, till the sun goes down 

Behind the hill, with smile or frown. 

With never a wish to call it back. 

Or a murmur if the clouds are black ; 

I watch the close of each passing day. 

And tho' Fate would eastward hold my eyes, 

The dearest to me are the Sunset Skies. 



Often with hands my gaze I shield. 

And in fancy see those yellow fields 

By the west wind rippled, as a waveless sea 

Kissed by the southern breezes free. 

And oh ! of all the pictures 

Mine eyes have ever seen, 

The Vale of the Sacramento 

To me the fairest seem. 




? 1899 



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